


wherever is your heart i call home

by everybodylies



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty-one means family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wherever is your heart i call home

**Author's Note:**

> The season finale gave me such family vibes I had to write something. They're cute, aren't they? Also, this is set a couple years in the future.

Dawson’s at some firefighter barbecue on the North Side with half of fifty-one. The burgers are delicious, and the sun’s shining bright, but she is not having a good time. She’s been mistaken for a paramedic or a firefighter’s wife by at least five people now, and her patience is starting to wear thin. Well… she actually is both of those things, but she’s a firefighter first, has been for the past three years, and she’s wearing the goddamn CFD jacket, anyway.

Whatever. She’s over it. Now, what she’s gonna do is enjoy this nice hot dog with Otis and Hermann, and just—

“They wanted us to take a chick firefighter, can you imagine?” comes a voice from behind her. The group of men laughs.

She turns around to see if one of the men is Welch. He should know better. She’d beat him up if she saw him. But no, it’s not Welch, just a bunch of CFD assholes from some house she’s glad she’s never met.

“And what’d you say?” one of the guys asks.

“I said, get this, I said, what’s her cup size?” More laughter.

This is what happens when you get too much testosterone together in a small space. Do they see her? she wonders. Do they know that she’s sitting right there? Or do they just not care? Dawson’s not sure what’s worse: men who proudly wear their sexism on their chest like a badge or men who pretend like they care about women’s rights until the women aren’t around.

Hermann looks at Dawson and raises an eyebrow. No. She’s not going to say anything. Men like that aren’t going to change their opinions because some angry Latina woman starts yelling at them about feminism. No, no way. Waste of time.

Dawson shakes her head at Hermann who frowns and then shakes his head back. Before Dawson can say anything, Hermann stands up and walks towards the group of men. Dawson buries her face in her hands.

“Hey fellas,” she hears Hermann say, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. And I just wanted to let you know, one guy to another, you know real nice like, that that kinda talk is never gonna pass at Firehouse 51. In the last five years, we’ve had several female firefighters who’ve saved more lives than I can count. One of ‘em is my close friend, and she’s saved my life plenty of times. So, when you guys talk like that, I take it personally.” Hermann pauses, and there’s silence. “That’s all.”

Hermann walks back over and places a hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “Thanks,” she says.

“No,” Hermann says, “thank you.”

* * *

Whenever anything goes wrong, it’s always Otis. Always.

… by which, Otis means, it’s always him who gets blamed. It’s not him who actually does anything. He just gets the blame. Which is what he means.

And because it’s always Otis, today there’s some rich old white lady screaming in his face about how her pearls went missing right after Truck took care of the gas leak in her house.

“I swear I didn’t take them, lady! Now, please stop shouting!” Otis has to lean back so the lady’s wild flapping hand motions don’t maul him in the face. He looks around the firehouse to see if there’s anyone around to help him. No luck.

“Don’t lie to me, I _know_ —”

“What’s going on here?” Severide says casually, as he walks up and places a warm hand on Otis’s back.

“This young juvenile,” the lady says, jabbing a shaking finger into Otis’s face, and he has to resist the urge to snap at it with his teeth, “stole several thousands of dollars worth of jewelry from my home yesterday.”

Severide looks Otis straight in the eyes. “Otis, did you steal anything from this woman’s home?”

Otis stares right back. “I didn’t, Lieutenant. I swear.”

“Alright,” shrugs Severide, “that’s good enough for me. He didn’t do it, ma’am.”

“ _What?_ You can’t just take his _word_ for it—”

“Actually, I can. I know Otis. He’s good people.” Severide smiles at him. “Go file a report at CPD, ma’am. You’re done here.”

* * *

Sometimes Arson Investigations calls him asking for help with tricky suspected arson cases. Sometimes he takes them.

He always brings Dawson along. They’re a team.

He likes the work. Nowhere near as much as he likes working on Squad, but it’s enjoyable. If he ever has to stop firefighting, if an injury takes him out for good, if it’s finally time for him to face the music, he could do this.

Dawson would have to be there, too, of course. “Think about it,” he says, stepping over a pile of charred rubble. “We could be partners.” He waves his hand in the air. “Severide and Dawson, Arson Investigators.”

“Uh, I think you mean Dawson and Severide,” Dawson calls from across the room.

Severide smiles, small and to himself. “Uh, I think it was my idea, so it should be my name first.”

“Uh, _I_ think you should come over here. I just found something.”

Dawson’s bending over a scorch mark marring the concrete ground. “Accelerant,” she says.

“Looks like.”

Dawson grins at him. In the room, burnt black, her white teeth gleam. “And that’s why _my_ name goes first.”

They always have dinner after at Reggie’s Pizza to talk about their cases, and they always end up talking about other things instead. Work, love, life in general.

Sometimes they talk about Shay. Sometimes they don’t. It’s good with Severide, either way.

* * *

It’s a bad week. Joe’s old neighborhood is getting terrorized by some group of thugs, and his brother’s taking the brunt of it. Leon’s trying to stick up for all the people who live in his building, all the kids and the old people and the moms, and all he’s doing is catching the gang’s attention.

And Joe can’t go through this again. Not again. He’d already done the unthinkable the first time. What’s he gonna have to do this time? And, shit, now he’s thinking about the Flaco thing again, and it’s been years, but he's still scared that the police are gonna come take him away any day now, or that it doesn’t matter because his eternal soul is damned to Hell, anyway.

When he gets home that night, Otis notices his mood immediately, asks him what’s wrong. Joe tells him all of it. All of it. If he can’t trust Otis, who can he trust?

Joe finishes his story, and Otis is quiet for a long time.

“Soo,” Joe says eventually, “do you want me to pack up my things now, or in the morning?”

Otis’s eyebrows wrinkle. “What? You thought I was gonna kick you out, just ‘cause of that?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to live with a murderer.”

“Look,” Otis says, serious, and when Otis is serious, he’s serious, “as far as I’m concerned, you did what you had to do.”

“Alright,” Joe says, quiet and grateful.

* * *

They give Boden an enormous card, one of those gag cards they sell at party stores that are three feet tall, and it’s completely filled up. Each person has written at least a five hundred word essay to him, except for Chili, who has simply scrawled in giant letters, “Best!! Chief!! Ever!!!”

They buy him an enormous cake, chocolate with vanilla frosting, his favorite, and they cut him the biggest piece, most of which Donna makes him give to Terence for health reasons.

Brett gives him a scarf she knitted herself, and Hermann gives him a lifetime coupon to Molly’s for 50% off gin and tonics. Connie actually gives him a hug. By the time they’re finished, half of the firehouse has started crying, and he needs to leave soon or else he’s gonna start tearing up, too. And it does not do for a firehouse to see their chief cry.

“Happy retirement, Chief,” Casey says.

* * *

“You got a sec?”

Casey looks up to see Severide grinning at him.

“Yeah, sure.” He follows Severide out of the firehouse, and Severide reaches into his pocket and pulls out two cigars. Casey raises his eyebrows, as he takes one and Severide lights it.

“Thanks. What’s the occasion?”

Severide takes a long drag. “No occasion,” he shrugs. “A buddy of mine just came back from overseas, and he brought me a couple of these. They’re Cuban.”

“I can tell. Nice quality.”

“Can you really?” Severide laughs. “Tastes like a normal cigar to me.”

Casey shakes his head. “Honestly, I can’t tell the damn difference,” he replies and laughs, too.

They used to do this a lot more, he thinks. Back when Darden was alive, when they were young and uninjured and there was none of this dumb drama.

But it’s harder now. He and Severide have their ups and downs more than they used to. So this is what Casey does. He enjoys those ups for as long as he can. And when the downs inevitably come, he tries to remember all that Kelly’s done for him, how much Kelly means to him. He’s getting at it. Really.

“Hey, watch this.” Severide blows a smoke ring into the air.

“Watch this,” Casey says, and blows a mouthful of smoke into Severide’s face. Severide gives him a dirty look, but he laughs after.

* * *

“MORE PIE PLEASE,” the most recent letter reads, in Dawson’s curly handwriting. “WE MISS YOU.” Also enclosed is a photo of Mouch closing his eyes and rubbing his belly, satisfied.

Mills smiles fondly as he starts rolling the dough. He’d found his place down here in his new firehouse, but fifty-one was special, always would be.

Maybe he’ll deliver the pies in person, this time.


End file.
